Well, that’s an easy question to answer.  My husband of 40 years tends my garden and I love to look at it.  Notice I mentioned, look at it.  I do not enjoy weeding, pulling out roots, slapping the bugs, batting away the gnats, looking sweaty and red in the face.  Call it vanity or call it reality as long as I’m not holding the handle on the spade.

You should see my husband’s vegetables, some tomatoes in pots and some in the ground.  It’s a contest to see which variation on the theme wins the blue ribbon this summer.  I’m voting for the varieties in the ground.  I’m voting for winning the prize of how many ways I will serve them.  See, that’s part of the deal over here, he plants; I cook.  Do I like to cook?  This is where the pan gets sticky because you must understand that for 38 years I actually did love cooking but I would rather eat light fare now, the kind that is served in a cool bistro and I don’t just mean air-conditioned.

I like Fork Restaurant in Philadelphia.  It isn’t just because the food is great but because I know a bartender there who happens to be an improv artist by day. Two weeks ago she introduced me to another gal bartender and together we thought up a great game of what drink would you name after yourself.

I love those kinds of games as what kind of bird would you be for the 5 and under set or what kind of video game for the 8 year old boy group.  The question What kind of drink would fit your personality? adds a different level of expertise and a few years to ones driver’s license, more than a few in my particular case.

My husband listened sweetly to us women playing around and laughing and decided he wanted in.  “I would be named Champagne,” he says.  I snapped my head around with that one.  Not because he isn’t cheerful because, he is, but his joining in so spontaneously afforded me an opportunity to hear his version of self-appraisal.  I thought of the possibilities a lesser man of minor sophistication might have chosen and just smiled.

Sometimes it’s better for a wife to do just that, just smile.

When I was a child my grandfather moved back home with us.  That meant my sister and I had to double up in the same room.  But because I loved my grandfather I thought it would all be fine.  The only problem was it was not fine because my little sister six years my junior snored and I’m a very light sleeper.

Obviously I couldn’t complain knowing that there was no alternative so I pleaded and begged my sister to stop sleeping on her back and to please roll over.  She refused.

So, what’s an older sister worth her own salt going to do?

I would quietly get up, tip-toe across the room, then quickly brush a little feather over her nose then run back into bed and pretend I was asleep.  This little activity went on for months until one day - as I stood over her with the feather - she opened one eye.  “I knew you were doing this, Mary, and I’m going to tell Mom.”

Well, that was the end of that fun activity for this first born.

My father served in WWII and so did my Uncles Frank, Bill, Charlie, Tom, Wayne, Al and John.  They didn’t talk much about those years.  Whether that was a man’s world or the world of war I cannot say.  Combined, these men represented the U.S. Marines, the U.S. Army and the U.S. Navy.  I always wanted to know more about their service experiences but I respected that it was their topic alone to discuss.  I respected that and them.

As a child, I wondered how my grandmother and grandfather could stand them being away and in harm’s way for so many years.  My mother told me that she wrote daily to my father, her brothers and her brothers-in-law when they were in the service.  She told me that after I asked her, “Mom, why don’t you write so-and-so a letter” when she voiced not hearing from some distant friend.  Her response was that she didn’t want to because it reminded her of all the letters she penned during the war.  I understand that better now; some associations are powerful in the way they tear at the heart in its delicate places.

Who doesn’t hear songs popular during a war and not feel a tug of sorrow and pride at the heart?  World War II songs always make me cry.  “I’ll be seeing you” and “I’ll be home for Christmas” are just two which fly to mind alongside the memory of my mother humming sweetly as she wiped down the kitchen table, “God Bless America.”

Maybe this is a sentimental side of me.  Maybe this is my growing older and more appreciative of what was long ago and far away for all of my uncles have died.  Maybe this is just my heart voicing the love I feel for these great men who made my life special, who made our country great, and made me feel comfortable being around men since I was just a little girl.

We had a wonderful dog named Beauty.  Yes, she was black and wonderful by our standards because we had so few measurements of greatness where our dog was concerned.  Everyone believed there was a person inside that short haired female sniffing machine.  Some Say she even saw our animal soul.  Okay, my name is “Some Say.”

Unlike other dogs, Beauty was never hungry at the end of the day for the singular reason that she had explored so many great garbage pails after people left for work.  I look back in horror at my attitude then.  I never realized how offensive I was having a ‘free range dog’ until I took a walk and brought my pooch with me.  Of course she wasn’t on a leash because that would be pet abuse.

Some neighbor who lived four blocks away saw me coming.  She began shouting awful things I couldn’t even repeat here.  I kept looking around wondering why was she so upset?  I didn’t even know her.  She pointed at the ground (now I realize it was at my dog) and her hands were flying around like she was swatting bees.  Then I noticed she was wearing a beret so I figured she must be an artist or something, real temperamental type.  So I waved back and kept going.

Sometimes that’s what we have to do when people become over-reactive.

My grandmom taught me a valuable lesson:  it’s easier catching bees with honey than vinegar.  I was given the name “Mary” because of her and her devotion to The Blessed Mother.  That’s the way it is in an Irish-Catholic home, someone has the privilege of having Mary as part of her name.

My mother, father, brother, sister and I lived upstairs in her roomy old Victorian house until Grandmom died in 1957.   She did not die alone mind you, her ten living children surrounded her bedside praying the rosary.  In my Catholic upbringing, Grandmom’s death was referred to as “a happy death” because she was in the state of grace when God took her back.  But from the way everyone cried, it didn’t seem real happy to me.

Grandmom called her home “Grand Central Station” because her children and grandchildren were always coming and going.  My mother’s siblings particularly.  Frequently, an impromptu party resulted.  Three of her daughters - Sarah, Eleanor and Dorothy – would burst out singing Maguire sister tunes in perfected harmony.  It made everyone happy, especially Grandmom.  In our town, everyone called her, “Mom” because she was everyone’s mom.  That impressed me as a kid; convinced me that “Mom” was not simply a name, but a title of enormous respect.  Besides Grandmom always made me feel special: paid me a dime to dust under her dining room table and fed me M & M’s just for being cute.

Grandmom was unselfconscious and made me laugh hysterically sliding those false teeth of hers in and out whenever I asked her to. But her funniest trick was taking her teeth out all together and putting them into a glass.  Now, when you’re nine years old, that’s a real conversation stopper.

Grandmom loved playing fish and Old Maids and for some bizarre reason, I always picked the Old Maid card which made her laugh and slap her knee.  It taught me that making someone else happy made me happy too.  I especially loved seeing Grandmom happy. When we finished playing, I always rolled down her thick cotton stockings and rubbed her legs with Witch Hazel.  Poor Grandmom, her veins were so swollen and sore that it always made me want to cry.  She would smile though; close her kind hazel colored eyes and sigh, “Thank you, Mary Jane.”

Mary Josephine taught me humility.  She wanted to go to confession every week; wanted to tell her sins, admit to her wrongdoings.  Finally, the young Irish priest she confessed to said, “Mrs. McCart, ya don’t have to be coming every week.  Ya have no sins; you’re good with The Lord.”  Grandmom was insulted and began crying saying she had lots of sins.  She didn’t.  She was as good as gold.

Grandmom taught me that every woman needed splendid things to acknowledge her personal style. She herself owned a hand carved cedar chest.  In it, wrapped in tissue paper, was a fur collar.  It was glamorous, black, and silky smooth.  I wore it when I played “dress ups.”  She said it was made of bear fur. Wow, I never heard of anyone having something made from a bear so I figured she was secretly rich and exotic, too.

Grandmom stored lots of hats in that chest too; my family was big on hats. My mother herself had a great many: velvet hats with rhinestone-studded veils and feathers, woolen fedoras in five different colors. Mom, however, stored hers away in the attic, but I had strict orders not to venture up there.  And while I listened to Mom’s orders, I disobeyed them every chance I could whenever Mom left the house and I was inclined.  What kid wouldn’t? That attic was another world where I sat for hours at her youngest sister Dot’s Hollywood style vanity with the three attached mirrors and put on her Dorothy Gray face powder and lip stick. My Aunt Dot’s marriage name was Gray so I thought that was another sign that we must be a famous family.  And here’s where some more role modeling from Grandmom seeped in: how to keep things to yourself.  You see, Grandmom knew I was up there playing where I wasn’t supposed to be, but she never told on me because “it was our secret.”

Grandmom endorsed prudence where alcohol was concerned.  She believed drinking was the direct pathway to the devil.  Remember, this was during the post WWII days of black seamed stockings, tall highballs in jelly glasses and Lucky Strikes dangling from movie star lips. Back then, guys went to bars that they called ‘tappies’ which had separate entrances from the women.  Separation I understand but the inference of it really belonging to the men? I thought that weird.  Nevertheless,  in our family if anyone wanted a drink and wanted to stay in Grandmom’s favor, they had better have their beer or whiskey on the sly.  And sometimes my father did just that at a tavern in walking distance from our home.

This watering hole was called “Conways” but no one ever called it that, instead, everyone called it “That Place” so Grandmom wouldn’t find out.  My dad would occasionally tell her and my mom that he was taking my brother and me out for a few hours. The ‘where’ part was a surprise.  All of a sudden, my brother and I found ourselves at “That Place,” sitting on a spinning bar stool, drinking root beer in a frosty mug and munching on salted nuts from little bags with Mr. Peanut’s picture on it.  Mr. Peanut was the guy in a crazy costume walking on the Ocean City Boardwalk in front of a place called ‘The Nut House.’

It was great hanging out with our dad in ‘that place,’ ‘this place,’ or ‘any place.’ It was great that was until my mother heard about where we went.  Then it was my father and my brother who would go.  I was a feminist at five and my mother telling me, “’That Place’ is no place for a girl” incited me first to demanding an explanation as to why, then to a full explosion of temper because her explanation simply made no sense! My mother said, “Mary Jane, you are too demanding!”  Throughout the years I’ve come to appreciate the power of that word “demanding” because, translated, what it really means to me is “I know what I want and I won’t stop until I get it!” Even back then whenever I stood up for my rights, or stamped my foot repeatedly, Grandmom would simply smile and say, “Maybe we can talk about this later after we make some candy apples!”  You see, my grandmother was a genius for using that honey I spoke about earlier.  She worked with me like the early missionaries worked with people: they fed them first.

But Grandmom’s loving nature was her real honey.  Heaven knows her sweet disposition captured everyone’s heart.  She was an indelible blessing in my childhood and I was fortunate for all of the lessons I learned, literally, at her knee.  Because of Mary Josephine Finnerty McCart I always have the great blessing sound of bees buzzing all around me.

My natural passions and talents evolved by observing my grandfather in his. An easy thing to accomplish because we shared the same house for the majority of his ninety years, the home he and my grandmom raised ten of their eleven surviving children in.

Grandpop and legend were synonyms in my little hometown mostly because of his many “unusual hobbies” like how many flies can be swatted on a front porch glider on any August day. While scores of commuters walked daily by our house they regularly shouted, “Hello there Pop, how many flies today?” Grandpop, who was pushing 90 by then, was never without his gray wool cardigan, a felt hat that he tipped for the ladies and a smile for the friendly passer-bys. Of course, that was outside, for strangers.

Inside he predictably fought my mother about taking a bath and wearing clothes without holes that his dropped cigarettes caused. You see, when Grandpop wasn’t looking, Mom stole his trousers and threw them in the trash. Sometimes these pants were still smoking around the holes where his ashes had landed. Mom used to holler out, “Pop, you’re going to burn down the house with all of us in it!” These telltale holes were the result of his Parkinson Disease that made his elegant ancient hands shake like a gambler about to place a bet.

When Grandpop was a little younger, probably in his early 70’s, he raised pedigreed parakeets and bred them for color. You want a bird with cerulean blue wings? You want a Kelly green bird with a necklace of black and white feathers? Not a problem. Naturally, mom and dad birds were involved in Grandpop’s plan as he tempted these parents into his handcrafted nesting boxes during mating season. That was when Grandpop would hoist me up to peak into a small, precisely drilled hole on the opposite side of the box where the parent birds entered - a memory etched deep in my mind with an attached feeling of secret belonging that I’ve never forgotten. Then one day a miracle - an itsy-bitsy baby bird with an oversized head, bug eyes and no feathers would beak its way out.

One day Grandpop offered me my own bird in a color of my choice. “You pick Mary Jane.” I said, “buttercup yellow, Grandpop”!  And that was that.  I loved my bird’s unusual color and ritually bathed it once a week after which I blew him dry like he was a candle on a movie star’s birthday cake. I also hand-feed him fresh spinach. Grandpop said it was a ‘him’ though I kept looking and trying to figure out what made him a ‘him.’ My mother wasn’t particularly thrilled about the sink routine, my inspection for its sexual identity, and teaching him to talk. I think that was because my bird’s initial vocabulary were not words that I taught it! “Dirty bird” was what he liked saying the most - that was because he heard my mother telling him what she thought of him – a behavior I’ve been accused of doing with people that sometimes gets me into trouble.

I named my parakeet ‘Nippy.’ That was because the little sociopath always bit me. Maybe my bird and I were similar because, hey, if someone put his finger in my face, I would probably bite it too. Grandpop sold these birds for $75.00 per. Back then that was an indulgence for a parakeet when the going price was seven dollars at Woolworths. Sometimes Grandpop gave these parakeets away as gifts. My Aunt Peggy got a more even-tempered bird. Hers said, “Hi Peggy, 102 Curtis Avenue” then it recited her telephone number. I thought her bird was a genius when I was a kid. Grandpop frequently said, “Never pair ‘em up if you want them to talk.” “Hey Grandpop,” I would ask, “Are you talking about birds or people?”

Grandpop liked making elderberry wine. He stored two small oak barrels of that God-awful purple stuff in the basement and it smelled absolutely disgusting when I was a kid. It tasted pretty bad too, just ask my brother or sister because rumor has it that they knew. Of course, I being the older, obnoxious and saintly first born sibling never knew about it except second hand. Grandpop always offered his company a sherry glass full of this home made concoction again and again until they finally sighed and said, “OK Pop.” You see, people had heard about this vile stuff long before ever getting a glass. In truth, no one actually swallowed the wine. No. They just sat around with puffed-up cheeks and smiling.

Grandpop drove a black Ford with a cool running board and man, was he a wild driver, right over the curb on several occasions that I remember. And it wasn’t about his drinking elderberry wine either - Grandpop was just a bad driver. My sister told me he once drove down the main thoroughfare on the wrong side of the street. She was hysterical crying with her two hands over her eyes while he hung out the window shaking his fist and yelling at the other drivers. Back then, people did that instead of giving somebody the bird when they were cut-off, ticked off or both.

Grandpop loved to garden. He entered the New Jersey State Fair on more than one occasion and won blue ribbons for his dahlias and peonies. One fall we planted 200 red tulip bulbs together. He told me not to forget to check them come spring. When they came up bright yellow, he smiled and winked.  I thought, wow, Grandpop is a magician too.

Grandpop kept a watchful eye on me when my hobbies turned to boys and his hobby turned to watching out for my hobby. Once, when I was an 8th grader, he found me outside and smooching behind our neighbor’s garage. I was wearing ‘Ambush’ cologne, ‘Kiss me pink’ lipstick and smoking one of his Chesterfields. Goodbye prepubescent behavior; hello hormones. I was also wearing an ‘angel blouse’ and feeling like anything but. Grandpop must have known I was there because, as he approached, he called out, “Is anybody back there that I know?” I’m sure he suspected about the kissing thing, but never about the smoking thing. Right before I was caught I remember thinking, “Man, it doesn’t get much better than this!” Then I thought, “Well, maybe going bowling.”

Grandpop loved fly-fishing. Before his trips he would pack a small cooler with a big ham and cheese sandwich, a cold can of beer or ginger ale and a few cookies. That was his good luck ritual. My ritual was sitting quietly on our cellar steps observing him twist and tie those small yellow and red feathers ever so precisely. Other days, unobserved, I’d step into his thigh high fishing boots and stomp around the basement pretending I was my grandpop.

Grandpop could be grouchy, but never to me. Forty-seven grandchildren and I was number one with him. Sometimes he would just hand me a dollar bill for no reason at all. I loved Grandpop and he knew it. He loved me and I knew it. I have never known anyone with more passion for hobbies and new adventures than my grandfather. When Grandmom died he drove himself to Florida and returned with alligator wallets for all his grandsons and alligator purses for all of his granddaughters. My bag was different, “Mary Jane, this one is for you.” It was unique all right: the head and tail were still attached. Awesome. I still carry that bag but not frequently, only on those occasions when I really want to impress someone.

I suppose when we think about those people from our childhood who were important to us, we remember those who spent time with us - Grandpop spent time with me. By example he demonstrated how hobbies make a life bigger, make a life interesting and make a life fun. By example Grandpop’s life taught me to make my life fun and try lots of different things and not to stop until I discovered what I felt passionate about; what I was good at. Those childhood hours with my grandfather left an indelible confidence on me that I, like he, could do anything I put my mind to and I could do it well.

January 14, 2010

Getting organized in the New Year I came across a few pictures of my grandfather and my sister, Eileen.  It prompted me to share this story.

After Grandmom died Grandpop moved out for awhile and satisfied his wanderlust.  Not long after seeing a few sights he returned so bedrooms were switched around - meaning my sister and I doubled up.  Because I loved my grandfather I thought it would all be fine.  The only problem was it wasn’t fine because my sister snored and I’m a very light sleeper.  Okay, I’m the original Princess and the Pea.

Obviously I couldn’t complain knowing that there was no alternative so I pleaded and begged my sister to stop sleeping on her back and to please roll over.  She refused.

So what’s an older sister worth her own salt going to do?

I would quietly get up, tip-toe across the room, then quickly brush a little feather over her nose then run back into bed and pretend I was asleep.  This little game went on for months until one day - as I stood over her with the feather - she opened one eye.  “I knew you were doing this, Mary, and I’m going to tell Mom.”

Well, that was the end of that fun activity for this first born.